Spook

18 Jake Runyon

Joshua was late. No surprise there. Wouldn’t be a surprise if he didn’t show at all.

The restaurant was off 18th Street, on the fringe of the predominantly gay Castro district. Noisy, dark, crowded. Joshua’s choice; his brief message on the answering machine had given the name and address of the place and the time, Saturday noon. Nearly all of the customers were male and some had inventoried Runyon when he came in, cataloged and dismissed him. He looked like what he was — straight, and a member of the law enforcement establishment — and they didn’t want anything to do with him. He’d been ignored ever since, except by a waiter who looked elsewhere while he quickly unloaded a menu and a glass of water.

Runyon sat waiting with his hands palms-up on the table. When he thought about anything, it was the Spook case. He hadn’t found Big Dog last night; and as of this morning, the authorities hadn’t picked him up yet either. Buried somewhere, but not deep enough. Wouldn’t matter to the agency’s investigation whether he got flushed out and chained or not, as long as the identity question could be answered in Mono County. He’d done his part, would keep on hunting if Big Dog was still at large when he got back, but the extra effort was for himself, not for the agency or the law or to see justice done. He’d quit believing in justice, man’s and God’s both, when he was told Colleen’s cancer was terminal.

Mostly, sitting alone in the noisy restaurant, he kept his mind cranked down to basic awareness. There’d been a time when he was not good at waiting, but that was long ago and far away. He’d learned. His years as a cop and a private investigator, all the stakeouts and travel time and downtime reports, had been partly responsible. But it hadn’t been until the past few months that he’d really learned how to do it. In doctors’ offices and hospital lobbies, at home during all the sleepless nights with the phone close beside him. Nothing taught you patience, the art of shutting yourself down for extended periods of time, like waiting for someone you loved to leave you forever.

He’d been there nearly half an hour when his son finally showed. He knew how long it had been because he was facing the entrance and when Joshua walked in, he glanced automatically at his watch. Joshua scanned the room; then his shoulders squared and he approached in measured steps. His whole demeanor said: Get it over with.

His mouth said, “Are you Jake Runyon?” in the same cold, formal tone he’d used on the phone.

“You know I am. Sit down, son.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

“Why not? You’re not that late.”

“I almost didn’t come at all.”

“What you almost didn’t do isn’t important.”

Joshua sat down. They studied each other, like stray dogs coming together for the first time — a kind of sniffing and keening. His mother’s eyes, all right. Bright, smoky blue, and raddled with emotion. Discomfort: he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands. Hostility, defiance: his unblinking stare was a challenge. Righteousness: he was dealing with somebody he’d been told all his life was evil.

The waiter appeared. Joshua said without shifting his gaze, “I don’t want anything.”

Runyon said, “Grilled cheese sandwich and tea, any kind.”

“Tea? I thought people like you drank beer or whiskey for lunch.”

“You sure you don’t want to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

The waiter went away. Joshua shifted position, hid his hands in his lap. He said, “I suppose you’ve been wondering why I picked this place.”

“Not really. You don’t live far away.”

“You know what this neighborhood is, don’t you?”

“I’ve got eyes.”

“That’s why I live here.” Harsh, confrontational: “I’m gay.”

Runyon was silent.

“You understand? Gay, homosexual. Your only child is a fag.”

Silent.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not shocked.”

“I’m not.”

“You already knew, is that it?”

“I didn’t know. Until you just told me.”

“Suspected it, then.”

“I never gave it any thought.”

“For God’s sake, you don’t even act surprised.”

“I suppose I am, a little.”

“Disappointed? Angry? Disgusted?”

“None of the above,” Runyon said. “Your sexual orientation isn’t important to me. None of my business.”

Joshua seemed nonplussed; it wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated, prepared for, and it seemed to have pitched him partway off his high horse. In less harsh tones he said, “Just what is important to you?”

“Where you’re concerned? That you’re happy, healthy, secure.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“You asked, I told you.”

“Well, I don’t have AIDS yet. Does that make you feel better?”

“What would make me feel better is less hostility and more civility.”

“Civility, no less. Such a big word.”

“There’s not enough in the world. Not enough of a lot of things — honesty, integrity, compassion, understanding.”

“Christ. Liberal sentiments from a cop.”

“Not all law officers are fascist homophobes, you know. Besides, I’m not a cop any longer.”

“Private eye. Same damn thing.”

“No it isn’t. You don’t know my profession.”

“I don’t care about your profession.”

“You don’t know me, I don’t know you. That’s why we’re here.”

“Establish a father-son bond?” Joshua said bitterly. “It’s about twenty years too late for that.”

“Not too late for you to hear my side of the story.”

“I don’t want to hear any of your lies.”

“I told you on the phone, I don’t lie.”

“I’ve known liars who said the same thing. Dammit, why couldn’t you have stayed in Seattle? Why did you have to move down here?”

“You know the answer to that,” Runyon said. “You’re all I have left now.”

“And I told you, you don’t have me, any part of me. You may be my biological father, but that’s all you are or ever will be. Why can’t you get it through your head that I don’t want anything to do with you?”

“I understand it, all right. I understand the reasons too.”

“After what you did to my mother—”

“It’s what she did to herself and to you that you don’t understand yet.”

“She didn’t do anything to me except love me and raise me! Alone! After you abandoned us for that bitch—”

Runyon caught Joshua’s wrist and pinned it hard against the table, fingers digging like metal into the flesh, bringing a grimace and a low cry of pain. He leaned forward. “Let’s get one thing straight right now. Say or think anything you want about me, but if I hear you call Colleen any more names or slander her memory in any way, I’ll knock you down and step on your face. Understood?”

“For God’s sake—”

“I’m not kidding. Understood?”

“Yes. All right, yes.” Runyon let go of him. There were angry red marks on the wrist; Joshua massaged them gingerly, avoiding eye contact. “I... I’m sorry.”

Runyon gestured that away. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

“I won’t mention her again. But I won’t listen to anything ugly from you about my mother, either.”

“No name-calling or mudslinging, that was never my intention. But sometimes the truth is ugly.”

“Here we go again. The last honest man.”

“I meant what I said. I won’t lie to you.

“You’re not going to change my mind about anything. I know what happened between you and my mother.”

“You know what she told you. Her version. I’m a monster, she was a helpless victim.”

“Well?”

“There’re some things I’ll bet she left out.”

“Such as?”

“That I was in touch with a lawyer before I met Colleen, to start divorce proceedings and to try to get custody of you. Didn’t know that, did you?”

“... That’s crap.”

“I’ll give you the lawyer’s name. He’s still practicing in Seattle.”

“Some friend of yours who’d say anything...”

“Her post-partum depression, the episode in the bathtub — she ever talk about that?”

Uncertainty seeped in to mix with Joshua’s disbelief. “What’re you talking about? What episode?”

“Severe post-partum depression that led to heavy drinking and neglect of your care. I came home early one afternoon and found her in the tub, passed out drunk, holding you in her arms. You were asleep but your head was barely above water. If she’d slipped down any farther, you’d’ve drowned.”

“Liar! That’s a fucking lie!”

“I’ll say it again — I don’t lie.”

“She wasn’t like that, she—”

“I’ll give you the name of the doctor who treated her. Or maybe you think a doctor would falsify his records as a favor to somebody he hasn’t seen in twenty years?”

“I don’t... it wasn’t until she found about you and... she didn’t start drinking until after you abandoned us...”

“She started drinking at sixteen,” Runyon said, “and she never stopped. She drank before we were married, before and after you were born. Her father and mother were both alcoholics — her father died of it, same as she did. I can document that, too, if you want me to. She needed booze to unwind, to be happy, to make love, to get through the day. You lived with her nearly two decades, you’re not blind or stupid. You know I’m telling the truth.”

The cords in Joshua’s neck showed as sharply as ax blades. “I don’t know it. You’re trying to trash her memory the way you trashed her life!”

“You couldn’t be more wrong. I loved your mother in the beginning—”

“Bullshit!”

“— but I couldn’t live with her any more.”

“Couldn’t live with me anymore.”

“I told you, I tried to get custody—”

“If that’s so... God knows what my life would be like now if you’d succeeded. What I’d be like.”

“Not so bitter, maybe. Not so filled with hate.”

“The only person I hate is you.”

“That’s what I mean,” Runyon said. “Look, I know she loved you and you loved her. I know she raised you alone, did the best job she could. I just want you to see her as she really was.”

“Sick, selfish, spiteful?”

“And self-destructive. Flawed human being, not a blameless saint—”

“That’s enough!” Joshua shoved his chair back, stood up so fast it clattered against the empty table behind him. “I won’t listen to any more of this!”

Runyon watched him stomp away blindly, almost colliding with one of the waiters. The entrance door cracked like a pistol shot behind him. Some of the customers were staring at Runyon, dislike on the faces of those close enough to have overheard. One of them said loudly to another, “Poor bugger. An asshole for a father, just like mine.”

Runyon ignored him. He sat the way he had before his son’s arrival, stiff-backed, hands palms-up on the table. He was still sitting that way when the waiter brought his sandwich and tea, set the plate and cup down harder than necessary. Runyon ignored him, too.

It had gone badly, but then he’d expected it would. Colleen would’ve known how to handle a situation like this; she’d been tactful, seemed always to have the right words at her command. But he was a blunt man, and his way was to plow ahead doing and saying what he believed had to be done and said. Joshua needed to hear the truth, no matter how much it hurt him or added fuel to his hatred. For his own good, even if it ended any chance of a reconciliation between them. He’d never really believed that would happen anyway. Hard enough fighting through twenty years’ worth of Andrea’s lies, half-truths, and self-serving omissions to try to forge a simple understanding.

He had no appetite, but he ate his sandwich and drank his tea. Colleen had never liked it when he or anyone else wasted food.

It was snowing in the Sierras. Just a light dusting on the way up Highway 80 to Donner summit, and the highway was clear; but there had been heavier falls recently — the snowplowed drifts along the verges proved that — and the Chains Required signs were liable to come out before he got all the way across. He had a set of chains in the Ford; you needed chains often enough during Washington state winters. But it was a hassle putting them on and taking them off, and driving with chains made him edgy at the best of times. Long, uninterrupted drives allowed him to relax, to shut down to basic awareness.

He made it across the summit at slowdown speed but without having to stop. There wasn’t much snow at the lower elevations, and none at all in Reno or Carson City or points south on Highway 395. It started coming down again at nightfall, near Topaz Lake on the Nevada/California border, and stayed with him across into Mono County and most of the way to Sonora Junction. Heavy enough to cover the road and retard speed, but this was high desert country, flanked by the massive Sierras on the west and smaller mountain ranges on the east; through here it was flat enough to make chains unnecessary. Still, the snowfall required sharp attention, tightened his shoulder and back muscles, put a tired grit into his eyes.

Nearly 8:30 when he reached Aspen Creek. He could tell little about it in the darkness, other than it was small and its main drag had been plowed recently; the low drifts along the roadway were smooth and even, gleaming pure white in the Ford’s headlights. Saturday night, but there wasn’t much going on in the town: a handful of bars and restaurants open, everything else shut down. Didn’t even seem to be much in the way of Christmas lights or decorations.

He found a motel on the southern outskirts, checked in, asked about a place to eat. The woman on the desk recommended a nearby family restaurant that was open till midnight; best food in the county, she said. Runyon doubted it. And the doubt proved out right.

In his room he checked the county phone directory. Bridgeport was twenty miles away. The county courthouse and main library were both open on Mondays, the courthouse at nine A.M. Lee Vining, if he needed to go there, was thirty miles beyond Bridgeport.

He went to bed, tried to sleep, couldn’t. Colleen, Joshua, Colleen. He put on the flickery TV, lay there staring at it, waiting for his body to lose its road hum and his mind to finally shut down.